If you’re driving along the highway in southern Corsica that connects the picture-postcard hilltop town of Bonifacio with the island’s capital, Ajaccio, you might find yourself distracted by a couple of things along the way.

First, about 20 minutes or so from your likely arrival point of Figari Airport, you’ll wind your way up around the craggy coastal mountains and begin your journey north, passing the Lion of Roccapina, a rock formation with a striking resemblance to (you guessed it) the king of the jungle. Then, another 10 minutes or so along the road, just after it gently forks in two, you might glimpse a cluster of farmhouses scattered across a hillside, partially obscured by rugged oak trees and nestled within Corsica’s famous maquis scrub—that unique blend of aromatic rosemary, lavender, and myrtle that cloaks much of the island. Finally, if you take the correct turning (you’ll need a location code, as Google Maps is of little use here), you’ll pull up at a series of nondescript stone gates, and take one of the series of dusty roads that wriggle their way up the hill—or, you might do as I did, and loop back on yourself a few times while trying to find the correct road.

If, up to this point, you were a little uncertain as to whether you were in the right place, the warm greeting that follows will inevitably reassure you. From a small bergerie, or traditional shepherd’s hut, a typically warm Corsican greeting awaits: a nattily dressed porter in white linens and a purple waistcoat to whisk you up a meandering path lined with tufts of wild rosemary to your very own bergerie (or suite within one of the larger farmhouses dotted around the estate). Yes, you’re in the right place: A Mandria di Murtoli.

If the name Murtoli sounds a little familiar, that may be thanks to its neighboring bigger sister, Domaine de Murtoli. A sprawling, ultra-exclusive estate located in the rugged Ortolo Valley near Sartène, its 2,500 hectares of wild maquis, dramatic cliffs, and agricultural land—it’s a fully operational organic farm, producing an abundance of fresh vegetables, cheeses, meat, and olive oil all year round—is scattered with some 19 private villas and bergeries, as well as 10 suites in the central farm area. In these parts, Murtoli is something of an institution—its founder, Paul Canarelli, is a native Corsican who first began renting out converted shepherds’ huts here in 1993—but it’s also deliberately low-key. A beloved getaway of Paris’s art and fashion crowds for its immense privacy and earthy interiors, the estate has relied primarily on word of mouth to build its loyal following rather than social media or wider promotional blitzes. Which is exactly what makes it so peaceful, and so lovely.

Well, actually, there are a few other factors that make it so lovely. Once again, there’s the decor, which is casually stylish without ever feeling overly fussy. Each of the 10 rooms and suites at A Mandria takes its name in the Corsican dialect from local produce—Clementina, Melagrana, Nucciola—and mine was the very charming Limone, located on the upper two floors of the central stone farmhouse, with a small balcony to sip coffee on in the morning and gaze across the pool and the sun-drenched hills beyond. (Also visible from the bed with the doors wide open, the linen drapes fluttering in the breeze—absolute heaven.) I was particularly enamored by the bathroom, with its his and hers sinks embedded into an antique pine dresser, and a rolltop tub in the center of the terracotta tiled floor; it was also generously stocked with products made by Nucca, a brand launched by Canarelli’s daughters Hélène and Lise in 2018 that takes its scents and botanical ingredients from Corsica’s native flora. (The fragrant lavender and aniseed shower emulsion was especially great.)

Another major bonus when staying at A Mandria? You also have full access to all of the Domaine’s facilities and endless natural wonders: most notably, perhaps, its wild and picturesque beach, Plage d’Erbaju, a dramatic curve of velvety yellow sand which soars up into scrubland and jagged granite mountaintops poking out the top. (Other activities include sea fishing, hiking, archaeological site visits, horseback riding, and mountain biking, but I was feeling lazy, so the beach—and a massage in the outdoor spa area next to it—suited me just fine.) There are wonderfully rustic bespoke cabanas and outdoor furniture made from driftwood and topped with thick cushions in the resort’s signature shade of purple; wander into the pine forest that sprouts up at the northern end of the beach, and you’ll find the Table de la Plage hidden behind the shade of myrtle trees, a network of wooden platforms and pathways that has the feel of a treetop village.

Here, you can take long lunches of grilled wild prawns with ratatouille or veal carpaccio, perfumed by the heady scent of the maquis drifting through the rustling pine branches, and acompanied by the sound of warblers chirruping in the trees. (Oh, and don’t forget to sample one of the expertly mixed cocktails: the Murtoli Negroni, which features the estate’s own custom-distilled gin and local Cap Corse Blanc, is briny and delicious.)

Indeed, it’s probably unsurprising, given the cornucopia of natural produce cultivated within the estate, but the food here is a major draw. At A Mandria, there’s a fantastic Italian restaurant (the much-contested history of Corsica, after all, means it’s culturally as much an Italian island as it is a French one) named L’Appuntamento, overseen by the Domaine’s former pasta chef: think zingy tagliatelle al limone, a tomatoey seafood pasta alla Calabrese, and a perfectly executed tiramisu. It’s especially pretty at night, as the sky turns a dusky purple and the strings of lightbulbs draped across the branches of the trees flicker like fireflies, complementing the stars twinkling in the skies above. (On which note, make sure to set aside some time for stargazing one evening—out here, in the middle of nowhere, you’ve never seen them so bright.) And on the Sunday I was there, I headed over for the spectacularly lavish weekly brunch in the Ferme complex, where locals who’ve stopped by a morning round of golf mix with guests to sample a head-spinning array of cold cuts and cheese and kaleidoscopic salads, eaten out on the terrace overlooking the undulating curves of the 12-hole course beyond.

After a few nights at A Mandria, wandering its pathways lined with aromatic clumps of immortelle, or lazily reading Andrew Roberts’s doorstopper biography of the island’s most famous son, Napoleon, by the pool, I hopped over from A Mandria to the Domaine for a final night in a classic bergerie. To reach my accomodations, I trundled up the hillside in a rugged 4x4, swining open the gate made of silvery-grey Corsican oak (necessary to stop the wild boars roaming in) to find a private paradise: extensive wild gardens with a lake-style pool hemmed in by mismatched stones, two sunbeds set up to gaze directly through a gap in the trees and into the valley, and the sun setting directly behind it. The cottage was fabulously snug, with an open working fireplace, a mini French farmhouse-style kitchen, and a plush but simple bed draped in immaculate linens. I’m not sure how to describe the feeling of potting around there on my own, other than it felt like I was temporarily living in a fairy tale.

Because what makes the estate unique, more than anything, is the palpable sense of privacy and calm that seems to hang like an invisible blanket across every corner of its endless acres—in my shepherds’ hut, I essentially had the entire hilltop and neighboring canyon entirely to myself. (I’m not really one to walk around naked, but if I’d wanted to, I certainly could have.) So it’s no surprise the resort is a celebrity favorite—though, naturally, the staff were far too discreet to ever spill the beans on which A-listers had stayed there previously, despite my having asked. There are even a pair of villas which come with their own private beaches: not only do you never have to leave the resort during a multi-week stay here, you don’t even truly need to leave your own private enclave, should you wish.

On my final evening at Murtoli, I was collected in an all-terrain golf buggy and ferried across the valley—past fields of Chianina cows chewing the cud, and over the trickling streams that are webbed across the estate—then along a series of winding roads to a tumble of colossal boulders at the top of a steep hill. Hidden in a gap between them was the entrance to Table de la Grotte. A mind-boggling feat of engineering, the restaurant is carved out from a network of caves, extending through to a series of terraces for pre-dinner drinks, all with sweeping views across the entire valley.

Maquis tonics and myrtle sours using homemade herby liquers were served under the glowing full moon, before we headed inside to the intensely atmospheric caves, lit entirely by candelight and with menus of the day being whizzed around on chalkboards framed by gnarled tentacles of driftwood. A feast of traditional Corsican dishes followed, ranging from cannelloni with Swiss chard and mint sausage, to slow-roasted leg of lamb with seasonal vegetables, to a glossy, perfectly scorched crème caramel.

Rolling my way back to my hut—quite literally, with the wheels of the buggy bouncing on the dusty stone roads—I fully understood why Murtoli’s most loyal devotees don’t want the word getting out too widely. If it weren’t my job to tell you about it, I’d keep it a secret too.